Children Touched by Ruin"
Kain, the 10-year-old prince of Ashenreach, stood atop a crumbling cliff in the Ashen Scar, lava bubbling below like the blood of a dying god. The air was thick with sulfur, choking his tanned lungs as he faced the Ashen Behemoth—a molten titan with eyes like smoldering coals, its roar shaking the earth. His royal family—King Torvald, a stern man with a scarred face and iron crown, and Queen Lysara, her golden hair streaked with ash—watched from the palace balcony, uneasy. His brother, Prince Rhydan, a lanky youth with a jealous sneer, whispered to General Drakon, Kain's warlord master, a grizzled figure with a missing eye. His sisters, Princess Elara, a delicate girl with violet eyes, and Lady Seris, a cunning scholar with raven hair, flanked them. Kain's strange behavior—issuing commands with an unnatural authority—left them wondering if this prince was truly theirs. "Will he bring ruin or glory?" Torvald muttered, Lysara's hand trembling as she prayed.
Kain's amber eyes narrowed, his black hair with crimson streaks plastered with sweat. He gripped a jagged rock, his Pride's Dominion surging, muscles bulging as he charged. The Behemoth swung a molten fist, shattering the cliffside, but Kain dodged, leaping onto its back. With a guttural cry, he drove the rock into its eye, black ichor spraying as the beast collapsed, its dying wail echoing. Gasping, Kain realized this wasn't his divine realm—Eryndor's cruelty was real. But just for a moment, he saw it—an obsidian throne broken in two, six shadows kneeling beneath a bleeding star. A voice whispered in his mind: "Prince of Pride... You once shattered the heavens." His sigil flared, and the vision vanished.
In Bloodspire, Vespera, also 10, faced the Bloodfen Titan in a swamp choked with rotting vines. The militaristic monarchy, ruled by Warlord Gavric, a towering brute with a scarred chest, and High Matron Veyra, her cold gaze piercing, oversaw the keep. Her brother, Captain Thane, a stern soldier with a broken nose, trained under Master Korran, a whip-scarred tactician. Her sisters, Lieutenant Mara, fierce with a blade scar, and Scout Lirien, silent with haunted eyes, stood by. Vespera's wrathful outbursts—smashing furniture with unnatural strength—frightened them. "Is she cursed?" Gavric growled, Veyra clutching a talisman, fearing for their lineage.
Vespera's violet eyes blazed, her raven-black hair matted with mud. She summoned Wrath's Inferno, flames licking the air as the Titan lunged, its serpent jaws snapping. She ducked, rolling through the mire, and unleashed a fiery blast, searing its flesh. The creature's agonized screech faded as it sank into the swamp, leaving Vespera trembling. Behind her rage, a vision clawed its way into her mind: fire raining from celestial skies, her own hands drenched in ichor not of this world. "You were the sword of judgment, sister of wrath," the voice hissed. Her sigil pulsed violently.
In Wraithshade's lawless slum, Lyric, a baby, faced the Wraithwood's Phantom—a spectral figure with hollow eyes. Her peasant parents, Marta, a gaunt woman with sunken cheeks, and Jorin, a stooped laborer with calloused hands, cradled her in a filth-caked crib. Her brother, Torm, a scruffy boy with a sly grin, served Master Vex, a crooked merchant with a missing ear. Her sisters, Rhea, a timid girl with matted hair, and Sela, a wild child with scarred knees, watched her strange giggles and glowing eyes. "She's possessed," Marta whispered, Jorin nodding, fearing for her soul.
Lyric's emerald eyes sparkled as Chaos Weave twisted the air, summoning spectral daggers. The Phantom wailed, its form fracturing as the daggers struck, dissolving into mist. Lyric giggled, but then froze. She saw herself dancing in the void, threads of fate wrapped around her fingers like puppets. Eyes—hundreds—watched from the dark. "Little trickster... you unraveled the stars once." Her Chaos Weave shimmered brighter, then dimmed.
In Ironfall's desolate battlefield, Zynia, 5 years old, lay in a battlefield trench of Ironfall, a desert of rusted blades and skeletal remains. Her peasant parents, Kael, a weathered farmer with a limp, and Tilda, a hollow-eyed widow, hid in a trench. Her brother, Dren, a wiry boy with a bruised face, trained under Master Harg, a scarred blacksmith with a cruel smirk. Her sisters, Ysmera, a frail girl with trembling hands, and Vara, a fierce scavenger with a chipped tooth, clung to her. Zynia's fiery tantrums—blasting dirt with her hands—alarmed them. "Will she survive this madness?" Kael murmured, Tilda weeping silently.
Zynia's hazel eyes flared, her red hair singed as Fury's Blaze erupted, molten shards flying. She dodged the Golem's crushing fist, striking its core with a fiery burst, reducing it to slag. Zynia panted, ash clinging to her sweat-soaked hair. A sudden memory struck—standing atop a tower of bones, her laughter echoing as flames consumed a divine palace. "You were born of fury... and you will burn again." Her sigil sizzled, the glow searing her skin.
In Crystalline Abyss's cursed village, Isolde, a baby, faced the Crystalline Abyss's Guardian—a crystalline beast with jagged limbs. Her peasant parents, Eldrin, a gaunt priest with a scarred throat, and Mirra, a frail healer with trembling hands, rocked her cradle. Her brother, Fen, a quiet boy with hollow eyes, served Master Thryme, a hooded seer with a rasping voice. Her sisters, Liora, a shy girl with pale skin, and Nia, a restless child with twitching fingers, noted her envious stares at their trinkets. "Is she bewitched?" Eldrin whispered, Mirra clutching a shard, dreading the unknown.
The crystalline beast crumbled, and Isolde's baby hand twitched. A temple of glass and shadow flashed in her mind, a mirror reflecting a hundred twisted versions of herself. "You envied even the gods, little thief..." Her sigil glowed cold, pulsing with hunger.
In Velvet Quarter's decadent trade hub, Sablon, 5 years old, faced the Velvet Ruins' Siren—a seductive figure with hollow eyes. His merchant parents, Lord Voren, a portly man with a greedy grin, and Lady Syris, a perfumed woman with cold eyes, oversaw his tent. His brother, Kaelin, a sly youth with oiled hair, trained under Master Zeth, a velvet-clad slaver with a silver tongue. His sisters, Taryn, a flirtatious girl with painted lips, and Lysa, a calculating child with a sharp gaze, noticed his hypnotic stares. "Is he touched by darkness?" Voren muttered, Syris adjusting her jewels, uncertain of his fate.
Sablon's emerald eyes gleamed, Lust's Allure summoning energy whips that lashed the Siren, its song faltering as it fell. Sablon stood frozen as the Siren fell, the air heavy with perfume and dread. In his vision, he lounged on a throne of flesh and silk, gods kneeling naked before him, their will shattered. "Your pleasure will always cost blood, beloved of desire..." His sigil throbbed beneath his skin.
In that same moment, across every cursed realm, the siblings' sigils ignited. Each raised their head. The world around them flickered—just for a breath. A sky of obsidian. A massive, hollow star, cracked and weeping black light. And beneath it… the horned demon, grinning wide, whispering in a forgotten tongue. "The game begins again."
Ashenreach's monarchy, a tyrannical regime under King Torvald, enforced order with brutal executions, its lava-lit halls echoing with screams. Bloodspire's militaristic rule, led by Warlord Gavric, thrived on conquest, its keep stained with blood. Wraithshade's anarchy festered in filth, ruled by gangs and superstition. Ironfall's despair was governed by warlords, its sands littered with bones. Crystalline Abyss's superstition bowed to shadowy priests, its caverns humming with dread. Velvet Quarter's trade hub masked cruelty with silk, its spires hiding slave markets.
As the siblings triumphed, a crimson glow pulsed, the system intoning: _[Phase One Complete.]_ _[Initiating Soul Reconnection.]_ _[Time Remaining: 7 Days Until Convergence.]_ Yet, in the shadows of each realm, a figure cloaked in black watched, its eyes glowing with a sickly green light. A low chant rose, the air thickening with the stench of decay, as a blood-red sigil carved itself into the ground—a ritual older than the gods, promising a cruelty beyond their trials.
These were not memories of fantasy—but of lives long buried in the bones of forgotten gods.